The Joke's on Me!
by Age of Continuity
Summary: Joker is rich, remorseful, and reformed. But for how long? Can he turn his life around?
1. Chapter 1: The Dream

**A/N: Hi, everybody. This is- (boos and hisses)-okay. Okay! I am sorry about the ONE FULL YEAR without updates. It's been busy, moving to the country, losing my computer chargers, having writer's block...but I'm back! With much longer stuff (I hope.) too! So, enjoy my Batman The Animated Series entry! (Everyone screams because of my lack of updates.) I do not own Batman, Looney Tunes, or, indeed, God.**

So, smart-ass, what are you gonna do now?

I was mentally kicking myself all the way to the apartment. I had to break out of the asylum, didn't I? But did I have any idea what to do? No-o. Of course not. Because I, the great, mighty Joker, could not have fathomed having a thought out strategy instead of doing whatever the hell I wanted.

Me and my Harley were low on cash, so one of my best henchmen, Bob, suggested we rob a video store. All those kids, paying bongo bucks for new technology, it was fool-proof! Too bad he had to **die**. Oh, well.

We stopped at the outskirts, at an old gas station. Harley went inside, bought an old six-shooter, bullets, pecan spin-wheels, and $30 worth of gas. She chose to pay, which was odd. I knew my Harley, and we shared the same common philosophy: Take what you want from life.

She then exited, loaded the gun, and walked back in to case the joint.

Ah, clever little minx. She raised the 'Help Joker' campaign by $133.79. Not bad.

We arrived at a quarter till twelve. People were lined up, probably for some ole' VCR or something. I myself admit to not being a 'techie', as some people were called. Call me old-fashioned, but computers can't shoot bullets, get me?

Three warning shots. It's practically standard with 'gimme the money' robbery, but, if you think about it, it's pretty dumb. Just know this: What comes up must come down, in this case on your **head**! Ha ha!

Then the Bat showed up. Two shots, aimed at his head. No dice. How does he avoid those? God only knows. One bullet left, to quote from Looney Tunes. I have to make it count. Or...

"Harley, more bullets!"

"Mister J, I'm a little busy here, so **sue me**!"

Ooh. She'll pay for that bit of sarcasm. I need my bullets, now!

"**Ow**!"

See what happens, Harley? Brat-Brain punched me in the jaw. Dislocated it. Again.

Another punch, the eye this time. Makes me go blind in it. At least I have the other one, right?

Finally, he shows some mercy, and decides to end our encounter. My head crashes into the linoleum floor, and everything goes black.

…

I find myself in a world of black and white. I see myself in the third person. I'm tall, dark, and handsome again. No white face. No green hair. No red lips. I'm just an average guy.

I know it's a dream, but I still try to convince myself otherwise. I was never that clown, it was just a bad dream.

Right.

A crowd gathers to gawk, to stare at me. I see familiar faces, people I've killed, their families, friends and pet hamsters all looking right at me. I can describe the look in their eyes with two words: pure hate.

Not, oh, you forgot our date last night hate, or even you took the last piece of cake hate, but pure, unadulterated, unrefined hate.

"Murder!"

"You killed me! Me!"

"You're the one who raped Gordon's daughter!"

"You did it!"

Voices all around me, surrounding me, suffocating me.

"Kill him!"

"Yeah, whack the sicko!"

"Off with his head!"

"No, please. Please, I'm sorry!"

Everyone still whispers. Mumbles. I mean what I say, I never intended to hurt so many people. Then Harley walks into the room. But this time, something's different. I don't see her as a pawn, or an escape option, but this time, I see her as a truly beautiful woman. What is wrong with me?

"'Sorry' don't cut it, Mister J."

…

"NO!"

"Mr. Napier, please, calm down! You're scaring the other inmates.'

Great, of all the doctors in the madhouse, I get Dr. Bartholomew. Lovely.

"Tell the truth, I'm glad you awoke after two weeks in suspended animation. Here, one day old mail."

Mail, for me? Strange. I never get mail. Riddler and Scarecrow get love letters galore, but little old me? Nadda. I'm like Charlie Brown on Valentines Day.

"'Dear Sir, we regret to inform you of the passing of Mr. Tony Zucco', thank **God**, I couldn't stand him, 'who has willfully left you...'"

My jaw dropped to the floor.

"'**$500,000,000**?! I'm rich! Rich! Fabulously wealthy, I'm a happy miser! I'm a..."

Then I remembered the dream.

I've had it before, and it had haunted me ever since. The looks of hate on their faces, the hurt and pain I've caused them, their need for vengeance... Maybe...maybe I could make it up to them.

'This is stupid!,' part of my brain shouted, 'You can't! Just keep doing what you do best, being a murderer! You're the Joker, for heaven's sake'!

'No,' said another, 'I'm not. I'm Jack Napier, an unlucky guy who could make up for his crimes! Just say it'!

"I'm a changed man."

**A/N: See! It was longer! And fans of my other stories, all three of ya, get ready for updates!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Visits

**A/N: Hey, I forgot to mention this last time, but please keep the reviews coming! Praise, constructive criticism, even flames are good if there is a genuine reason my stories suck! So, read and review! Thanks!**

**Hell.**

That's the one word that describes Arkham, totally, unjustifiably insane. The whole place is full of kooks and grannies that make **me** wanna go cry in the corner. Life in padded cell is not as easy as it looks. There's the straight-jacket, which is pretty easy to get out of, if ya ask me. Then there's the whole 'solitary confinement' thing, which ain't all that bad, either. Most of the time, I want to be alone. But then, the worst one side-effect of asylum life hits you.

**Boredom.** It's unbearable. You're in a room, with no personal items, no mementos, no keepsakes, just you, a bed, a toilet, and four walls. My** stooges**-sorry, my **attorneys**, there's a difference, were trying frantically to get me out of this nut-house. But for $50,000,000, wouldn't you?

In the meantime, I thought about what I would do out there. Buy a small mansion, play golf, maybe try that Italian place on 5th. Who knows? I don't a repeat of last time I got rich though. Oh, God, no.

And then there's the little matter of Harley.

I haven't heard much. You'd think with a network like mine, I'd be able to scoop up the dirt instantly. But no, all I hear is vague chatter among the guards about ho they'd 'so do her'. It makes me sick, to be honest. But who was I to talk? Me, the guy who had a) seduced her into becoming a super-criminal, b) abused her and neglected her, and c) thrown her out a **freaking window**. The only thing I know for sure is that she's not in here.

I was thinking about, I don't know, tracking her down and apologizing. If she didn't shoot me as soon as she opened the door. Maybe I'd get her a ring or something. Girls go crazy over that stuff. Messed up your relationship? Flowers, rings, and chocolates, that's my advise. Even Jervis Tetch knew that.

I probably wouldn't even get out of here, now that I think about it. I mean, most of these guys have real sob stories about their origin. Riddler, fired from his job, Tetch, unrequited love, even Harvey you could feel sorry for. But the murderer/ accused rapist/ kidnapper in block C? Nope. I have no excuse for my actions, I just went a little mad. Or, a lot mad in my case.

And about that. 'Accused rapist'. I never was anything of the sort, that was my own, sick henchmen's decision, but me? No, but I guess everyone sorta gets that image of me. I had my own, twisted sort of moral code. Killing? Sure. Kidnapping? Why not? Tax evasion? Well, that's not technically my fault, but, yeah, I guess so. Rape, though? Not once.

"Hey, Joker, you have a visitor."

"Please...Call me Jack. I can't stand that alias."

"Uh...sure, Jack."

Ooh, who's my visitor this time? My attorneys, a doctor, maybe...

"Batman! It's been forever, say, did you get a tan?"

"It's been two weeks, Joker, and no."

"Please,** Jack**. I'm not that person anymore."

"So you say, Joker."

Ugh. He isn't going to budge, is he?

"What's your joke this time with the tan remark? Trying to throw me off my game?"

"Please, I'm just trying to make casual conversation,** Dork Knight**."

"Don't talk unless spoken to, Joker."

He **really** hates me, doesn't he? Well, fair's fair, I guess.

"I've seen enough 'reformed' criminals to make your head spin, including yourself once already. Why is this time any different?"

"Bat-Brain, you don't believe me? I'm** hurt**. I'm genuinely sorry for the harm I've caused society, including yourself. I just want to make amends. You can understand that, right? Or do I need to stick to two syllable words?"

I knew I shouldn't have said that. Sends Batsy into a rage. Over the next few minutes, my head has a great bonding opportunity with my metal bed.

"**Ow**! Brutality is a crime, ya know!** Aah**!"

"I'll be watching you. And if you even think about-"

"Blah blah blah. Why don't you do me a favor and** kill** me already, seeing how you want to bore me into a comatose state?"

" Don't screw up. Or you'll get more of what I just gave me."

"What? A healthy dose of vigilantism and assault? Ya know, what you're doing ain't exactly legal either."

He just walked away without a word, but I swear there was a stall in his step when I said that.

…

I awoke with a start. Someone was rapping at my door.

"Hey, uh...Jack."

"What? I'm busy** sleeping** here!"

"It-it's Dr. Bartholomew."

"Great. Just peachy. Send him in, like I have a choice."

He walked in.

"Hi. I appreciate letting me see you at such a late hour, but-"

"Yeah, yeah, doc, what do you want?!"

"I wanted to preform our ink-blot test."

"Oh, goodie."

I hated the ink-blot test. Usually, I would just make up random images out of spite. I mean, what the hell kind of idiot thought of this? What do you see? I see a freaking stupid test, that's what!

He showed me the first one. Oh, no. Not this early. Come on, make up something else!

"I-I see...a bat, okay? I see a bat."

"Just as I thought. You're not reformed."

"A-are you joking? After one stupid blot, you say that I'm not ready to re-enter society just because I see a bat? Are you insane instead of me?! Look at it yourself. Tell me there is absolutely no resemblance to a bat, whatsoever!"

"Y-you're right, Mr. Napier. I apologize for the mistake."

"Sure, right. Next!"

Okay. This one's easy.

"Hm...a broken beer bottle. Reminds my of my pop."

"Good. And this?"

Oh, doc, too obvious.

" A nice, big smile."

…

He told me the results. Apparently, I was ready to check out of this mad-house once and for all. That's encouraging. And it turns out they granted me a trial, so that's nice too. In the meantime, I thought up a list of ways to avoid the press. No doubt they'd hound me for days, spreading lies that further ruin my not-so sterling reputation. Especially that Jack Ryder fella, and...what was her name? Lois Lane? No, that's Superman's chick. Vicki Vale? No. Um...oh, Summer Gleeson! Her!

I had my purple suit dry-cleaned. I was going to need it for the trial. First impressions are everything Or, at least my attorneys say so. I guess they thought I would enter the courtroom in boxer shorts, with Sunday trousers around my ankles. Idiots. I got a real flower for my suit (Don't tell Ivy! Or Harley for that matter...), the best cologne you can sneak in here, and even a pair of new shoes.

This is going to be fun.


End file.
